What the hell, summer spell.

My name is Arianna Stern. This is a page with some of my freelance work. You can email me at arianna[dot]s at gmail[dot]com.

Dec 6

revealing screen shot 1

revealing screen shot 2


Nov 25
theblacksupremacist:

roboland:

Please reblog and help find this young boy. He is the brother of someone I consider a family member of mine and anything will help right now.

please reblog this, regardless of where you live

attn NY people

theblacksupremacist:

roboland:

Please reblog and help find this young boy. He is the brother of someone I consider a family member of mine and anything will help right now.

please reblog this, regardless of where you live

attn NY people

(via robot-heart)


Nov 16

Oct 25

Oct 20

<——

Here I am in Brooklyn. A friend told me to apply for a job within her company, and after four interviews and an intercontinental flight, I found out that I didn’t get it. I stayed with her and slept on her couch, and stood naked in front of an oscillating fan with a 101 degree fever. I shared the place with four other women and only one bathroom. It was a sticky, humid late-September.

I’ve moved again, to a different part of Brooklyn. It’s gorgeous and tidy, but I’ll leave this place soon enough, too. I’m still looking for a job, while living off my savings and a bit of freelancing money. At home, I don’t have an internet connection, which means that I spend a lot of time just walking around, meeting sweet little puppies like this one:

The uncertainty of this time period doesn’t bother me—not deeply, anyway. Thanks to my parents and privilege, I’ll always have a place to stay. Psychologically and financially, I can afford to fail.

When I think back to my life one or two years ago, it’s striking to remember my frame of mind and daily habits. They were so different than they are now. My early 20s were a time of constant challenges and self-exposure, and yet I was so unsure of myself.  Picture a wedding photo in which the smiling young bride is covered in newly-healed burns.

I flipped through my past blog posts and felt embarrassed at some of what I’d written. Trying that hard to be novel and clever is sometimes exhausting. Still, I also had this pointed feeling of loss, like the time I looked at a beach photo of myself and discovered that I didn’t look nearly as awful as I’d assumed. Here was a person who desperately needed my approval and whose vulnerabilities I’d ignored. Here was a person I never took proper care of, someone I’d hardly loved at all.


Sep 24

Q. Since it’s about Celeste separating from a man, not about her searching for one, did you think about how it fit in the canon of romantic comedies or about subverting those conventions? It seems like we’re seeing more of that on screen.

A. We tried to create an element of surprise: He’s her gay best friend, but he’s not very good at being gay. Women have been interesting forever. I’ve had so many women come up to me and say they were being fully represented, that they’re complex, and it’s O.K. to be complex, and it’s O.K. to be emotional one moment and really pragmatic the next. We’re going through a major evolution, and men haven’t had the same evolution. At some point we’re going to have to do something to bring them along. What are they doing? Get it together! We’re going to have an entire generation of smart, stable successful women go without men, because they’re just playing video games and dating younger girls.

—I finally read this New York Times interview with Rashida Jones, and boy, am I glad I did


Sep 19
family portrait

family portrait


Sep 17

“True to the book’s title, Rothbart often turns his focus to his own failed attempts at romance. While he treats his platonic acquaintances as individuals, his love interests all blur together. They’re pretty, tragic, and unfamiliar; they do not have comfortable lives. ‘I’m always drawn to girls in the service industry—waitresses, baristas, bartenders, concierges, strippers—basically anybody who’s working for tips,’ Rothbart writes. ‘I dream of burrowing through their lacquered shell of professional friendliness to investigate the soulful edges I glimpse underneath.’” — me on Davy Rothbart’s essay collection, My Heart Is an Idiot, over at The A.V. Club


Jul 31
“Do you know how long it initially took us to produce At the Movies? Six hours! They would argue incessantly. If Roger [Ebert] talked for four minutes of a six-minute segment, Gene [Siskel] would holler, “That’s not right!” The same thing happened whenever Gene would talk longer than Roger. They demanded that the other didn’t get one more second of screentime. (Joe Antelo)”

—an excerpt from Enemies: A Love Story, posted on Slate.

I urge everyone to read this story, especially if you’re at all familiar with Siskel & Ebert or if you’ve lived in Chicago. The show was a brainy, populist institution that did good on behalf of the Windy City. Before reading the piece, which was printed in The Chicagoan, I had no idea that Siskel and Ebert’s rivalry was so marked (or funny). The oral history takes a very fluid form, and it’s informed by more than 20 speakers. For real, read it!


Jul 26
The night before last, my roommate slept over at her girlfriend&#8217;s house. Two days ago, I was diagnosed with a sinus infection, which I know is a minor health problem.
I hate being alone when I&#8217;m sick, even more so after getting calamitously sick in January. I lived alone then, and I staggered around my one-bedroom apartment, my consciousness pulsing on and off. When I woke up on the floor, at the peak of my illness, I thought I might die.
&#8220;I&#8217;m 23 years old,&#8221; I thought to myself. &#8220;I&#8217;m not going to die.&#8221; I thought it with solemnity and conviction, as though I was making a decision. While that idea was just as true on January 12 and 11, I do not need that reminder every day.
++++
I have a lot of needling phobias; it&#8217;s just something I live with. For me, it&#8217;s like getting the hiccups in your stream of consciousness. I hate to ride elevators and I&#8217;m afraid of being poisoned, which is probably the result of too many warnings about Halloween candy. It&#8217;s somewhat unpleasant, but it&#8217;s hard to nix a phobia, because it&#8217;s hard to un-imagine something.
In January, even after I decided that I wouldn&#8217;t die, I asked almost everyone who saw me for confirmation. I asked the two policemen who came to the door and the the man who rode with me in the ambulance. I asked the nurse and the doctor at the hospital, whose bathroom floor was sticky against my bare feet. The next day, I even asked my parents if I would live. Anything is possible.
One of my phobias is conditional. If I&#8217;m far away from home, I get scared that I won&#8217;t be able to return. I&#8217;ll get sick, or die, or become embroiled in some sort of conflict. Getting sick here has been difficult, and I&#8217;ve been asking others for reassurance. It&#8217;s hard when I&#8217;m alone.
The night before last, when my roommate left, her fickle cat crawled on top of my bed. I woke up every hour, because I&#8217;m taking pseudo-ephedrine. The apartment was still and the traffic outside was intermittent, but noisy. Periodically, I&#8217;d pet the cat a little, then fall back asleep.
I wish I could write that I&#8217;m growing less terrified of my body&#8217;s vulnerabilities, but that&#8217;s not really true. Though I can say that the opposite isn&#8217;t true, either&#8212;I&#8217;m not getting more scared. I haven&#8217;t developed any confidence in my own health, much less an overarching faith in the goodness of the universe. For the moment, I&#8217;ve just been telling myself to &#8220;see it through&#8221;&#8212;expatriation and my illness, my life as a whole.

The night before last, my roommate slept over at her girlfriend’s house. Two days ago, I was diagnosed with a sinus infection, which I know is a minor health problem.

I hate being alone when I’m sick, even more so after getting calamitously sick in January. I lived alone then, and I staggered around my one-bedroom apartment, my consciousness pulsing on and off. When I woke up on the floor, at the peak of my illness, I thought I might die.

“I’m 23 years old,” I thought to myself. “I’m not going to die.” I thought it with solemnity and conviction, as though I was making a decision. While that idea was just as true on January 12 and 11, I do not need that reminder every day.

++++

I have a lot of needling phobias; it’s just something I live with. For me, it’s like getting the hiccups in your stream of consciousness. I hate to ride elevators and I’m afraid of being poisoned, which is probably the result of too many warnings about Halloween candy. It’s somewhat unpleasant, but it’s hard to nix a phobia, because it’s hard to un-imagine something.

In January, even after I decided that I wouldn’t die, I asked almost everyone who saw me for confirmation. I asked the two policemen who came to the door and the the man who rode with me in the ambulance. I asked the nurse and the doctor at the hospital, whose bathroom floor was sticky against my bare feet. The next day, I even asked my parents if I would live. Anything is possible.

One of my phobias is conditional. If I’m far away from home, I get scared that I won’t be able to return. I’ll get sick, or die, or become embroiled in some sort of conflict. Getting sick here has been difficult, and I’ve been asking others for reassurance. It’s hard when I’m alone.

The night before last, when my roommate left, her fickle cat crawled on top of my bed. I woke up every hour, because I’m taking pseudo-ephedrine. The apartment was still and the traffic outside was intermittent, but noisy. Periodically, I’d pet the cat a little, then fall back asleep.

I wish I could write that I’m growing less terrified of my body’s vulnerabilities, but that’s not really true. Though I can say that the opposite isn’t true, either—I’m not getting more scared. I haven’t developed any confidence in my own health, much less an overarching faith in the goodness of the universe. For the moment, I’ve just been telling myself to “see it through”—expatriation and my illness, my life as a whole.